Hand In Hand

They walked toward the Williamsburg Bridge, Miriam by his side. Even with her hat on, she barely reached his shoulder, yet they walked at a steady pace, matching their steps. Nyezhiner raised his hand in the air.

“How can it be?” he asked. They’d lived near each other for two years in Williamsburg yet never met. “It’s unbelievable!”

Miriam looked up at him. Softly, warmly, his gray eyes met hers. Their walking together, with him holding her arm, was un­expected but somehow not surprising. It was as if their walking arm in arm on this lovely evening had been determined long ago.

They joined the crowd on Clinton Street. Tall tenements rose up on both sides, blocking  the sky. The street was full of horse-drawn carts and manure. A car honked and children made a rack­et. It was still light out, but the gas lamps had been turned on, and the bright shop windows displayed lingerie, corsets, stylish hats, wedding clothes to buy or rent.

On the stoops sat women in wigs and kerchiefs who looked as if they were just off the boat. They gazed at everything as if in a dream.

Miriam made her way through the crowd with small dainty steps. Her clothes and her bearing made her look as if she’d come from uptown to see the slums.

Nyezhiner bent down to her, his face aglow. “How do you like all this, our Jewish tumult, eh?” he asked. “Isn’t it amazing that children manage to grow up here? And with color in their cheeks, too! Miraculous!”

“Miraculous?” said Miriam, smiling. “Then...